Fearfully And Wonderfully Made
by Bekah1218
Summary: Sherlock has returned from destroying Moriarty's web, only to find that Molly has also suffered in his absence. Can Mycroft and their friends help them to return to a normal life? AU-canon Divergence post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Friends to Lovers, Mention of Childhood Trauma, PTSD, Enhanced Interrogation Techniques, Loss of Child. First work in my Jigsaw series-
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Homes sat at his desk, writing his musings down in an old-fashioned leather-bound journal. From time to time, he paused to add a small photograph to the page. As he looked at the photos, his face held an expression of fondness mixed with something else- sorrow? Regret? Nevertheless, he kept writing and adding pictures to the journal for about an hour, then closed it and fastened the leather bindings. He realised that no one would expect him to use the old-fashioned method, but he felt it was more appropriate somehow. He placed the journal in his lower left desk drawer and gazed out at the evening shadows falling.

Feeling unsettled, Sherlock walked over to where he had left his violin, lifted the instrument from the case, and tucked it under his chin. The bow still held rosin from an earlier session today. As he walked again to the window, sad strains of music began to waft through the flat at 221B. Sherlock's eyes closed as he let his fingers roam freely and play whatever tune lay in their sense memory. Strangely, the sadder the music became, the calmer Sherlock seemed to be. It was as if he could let go of the secrets of his heart as he played, saying things he could never talk about; even with John.

He continued playing as he thought about John, who of course no longer lived here. He and Mary had wed and moved into a flat of their own across town while he was "dead". If his observations were correct- and why shouldn't they be?- he hadn't lost all power to reason, after all- there would soon be an announcement of a pregnancy. At the very thought of this, Sherlock felt his eyes begin to tear, but forced the thought away in another direction as quickly as he was able. He would be happy for them if it took every ounce of strength to do so. He could not, would not, get lost in his own pain. John deserved that much.

And Sherlock- what did he deserve? He knew he was not the most demonstrative man, but didn't he deserve some chance at happiness? Why had all this happened just when it seemed that life was at last making some sense for a change? He resolved yet again to bear all in silence. No one, least of all John, should have to be pulled two ways. He knew his friend would have moved heaven and earth for Sherlock if he thought it would make a difference, if it put a smile back on Sherlock's face.

 _How are you today, little brother? - MH_

 **I'm fine. Just fine. - SH**

 _You should record your music when you compose – MH_

 **Thank you, Mycroft- I have been, and have referenced the pieces in my journal- SH**

 _Ah- well, it is a good idea in the event...- MH_

 **Mycroft, I must go now, terribly busy - SH**

 _Take care of yourself- eat something today and get some rest – MH_

Sherlock shut his phone off and flung it onto the sofa. He knew Mycroft was concerned about him, but he just couldn't bear any more right now. At least he had answered so that his brother would not (hopefully) appear out of a black car in the near future. He went in to the kitchen and made himself more coffee. Other than the two sugars he took in it, he guessed it didn't afford much in the way of nutrition. He just wasn't hungry. Besides, he had eaten on- when HAD he eaten anything at all? The days all blurred into one another lately. Sherlock shrugged it off- when he was hungry, he would eat.

Mrs. Hudson heard Sherlock pacing. Not again, she thought. He sometimes paced for hours of a night. It surely did him no more good than it did her carpet. Although, of course, she would buy ten new carpets if wearing them to threads made even the slightest difference. She only hoped it would wear Sherlock out enough for him to grab a few minutes' sleep on the sofa- he rarely slept in his bedroom any more, not since he had returned... well, no use going in that direction again! The poor lamb...she wished that he _would_ sleep in there more often, it had to be more restful!

Across town, Mycroft let himself into his house after he was dropped off at the front entrance. He had been even more concerned than ever after Sherlock had ended the text. He settled for placing two new men in an empty flat across the street from 221B Baker St. and letting Mrs. Hudson know about them, giving her their numbers. He knew, of course, that even functioning at his present level, Sherlock would suss them out in a short time, but for now he felt minimally better about his brother. Although he had not seemed inclined to return to his former coping mechanisms, there was always the danger that so much stress would lead inevitably to those pursuits. The men had in their possession the latest in resuscitation gear and pharmaceutical countermeasures if the worst did occur. At present that would have to suffice. He sighed and poured himself a drink before dinner. Perhaps a properly aged single-malt would help.

In another part of London, John Watson sat and worried about his best friend. Sherlock, after an initial predictable attempt to make light of his relationship with Mary, seemed to finally, albeit grudgingly, accept her and the marriage. John was torn between two trains of thought. One, Mary had done a home pregnancy test a few days ago and they were both ecstatic about the baby. The other was a fear of telling Sherlock the news- John knew he would react less than positively to the prospect that John would in future spend even less time at 221B. He also worried that this might be the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, and send Sherlock into a downward spiral from which he might never emerge.

He knew that the time Sherlock had spent being "dead" was still largely a mystery for various reasons. He understood the need for that. What he hated to see, was the utter lack of what for a better name, he would call a soul since Sherlock had reappeared. The only evidence for a deeper inner life was Sherlock's music. John thought that something had happened whilst he was gone but had no idea what that might be. He had even spoken about Sherlock with Greg Lestrade, hoping the detective inspector could help to keep an eye on Sherlock when he himself could not.

Greg had agreed that he was concerned as well, and resolved to not only remain his friend (Greg had known Sherlock when he was using, and stayed a friend through several rounds of rehab until the one that seemed to "take"- although he was always aware that a relapse was possible) but keep a watch on him as well. For a man who hated to be bored, he now seemed to be at a standstill. Mycroft met with him and said that Sherlock was not able to handle regular cases because of the remnants of his injuries, and had suggested to Greg that he bring some cold cases over to 221B, so that Sherlock would have something to concentrate on, to occupy his mind. He did so, but Sherlock was inconsistent about working on the cases. Greg put it down to his continuing recovery, though he didn't know the extent of the damage.

Sherlock rarely left the flat unless it was in the company of his brother. The days of rushing around London, tearing after Lestrade's group of police officers and techs, were fading further and further into the distant past. That in itself was a radical change in the man, and worried his other friends. The two brothers seemed to get on better than in the past. Sherlock seemed to accept Mycroft's overtures of help and they often went together to the family home outside London. In fact, this was a totally new behaviour since John had known Sherlock, but it seemed to be helpful. He always was a little brighter, although somewhat wistful, when he returned from time in the country house.

The composing increased after each trip away as well. Sherlock had filled many pages of manuscript paper with violin scores and had even started a full-on orchestral arrangement of one of his pieces after the last visit. He was pouring something into his music, though his friends disagreed as to what it might be. Remorse? Certainly there was sorrow in most of his music, almost an unbearable amount. Much time was spent in trying to deduce the inspiration behind his compositions, but there was never any definitive consensus of opinion. In anyone else, it might have been a lover- but to anyone's best knowledge, Sherlock had never taken a lover of either sex. Speculation about that was another matter of discussion.

Sherlock's odd, repetitive behaviours had also increased alarmingly. John had always thought they were some form of dealing with anxiety in social situations, but he wasn't certain of it. Sometimes Sherlock controlled it well, hiding it as simply as tapping his fingers on a table in time with a melody only Sherlock could hear. Other times, John noticed Sherlock walking up on his toes or tugging at his hair. Once or twice, he had caught Sherlock actually rocking, with his arms wrapped around himself. When this happened, Sherlock would stop as soon as he realised he had an audience, and then glared at John, daring him to comment. So far, it had worked, but John felt a confrontation was coming. He dreaded that day, fearing Sherlock would withdraw even further. He had always speculated that Sherlock fit somewhere on the autistic spectrum, probably with Asperger's, but he was no psychiatrist.

The only other person who may have had any insight into Sherlock's state of mind was Molly Hooper, "Sherlock's pathologist," but in the year after the Fall, she had moved out of the area and was no longer in contact with anyone. John knew that Molly had loved Sherlock ever since she met him, but it was unrequited, and he thought she just needed a change to move on with her life. He missed her cheery face and smile, but thought it was probably for the best that she had moved away. He hoped that wherever she had settled, she was happy.

 _ **A/N- This story has been a long time coming- many, many thanks to all who helped, especially my Beta, LilSherlockian1975, and my friends Nefereu and AtlinMerrick. This story is complete and chapters will be posted at frequent intervals. I own nothing. Please read and review.**_


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sat slumped on the sofa, his hands steepled beneath his chin. He was wandering the halls of his mind palace, searching for a particular chamber. Of course, he knew its precise location, but preferred to spend a little time in the quest. He felt that he had to achieve a certain state of mind to be worthy to enter... and lately that was getting more and more difficult to do. No, better wait a little while longer before going in there. Funny that such a mousy (her term, never his) person would burrow into even the deepest reaches of his inner construction- as he wandered, he saw more and more traces of her personality and frankly, abominable, taste. For god's sake, one chamber even had kittens on the wallpaper! How had THAT happened? He couldn't suppress a shudder, although he then smirked a bit. She was certainly persistent. As he turned away, a shadow streaked across the room- Toby, he assumed...

Sherlock deliberately turned down an alternate passageway and viewed the paintings along the corridor, sliding down into a supine position on the sofa as he did so. As he rounded a turn, he was met with a portrait that he hadn't realised he placed there. It was so beautiful, it was physically painful- his chest ached. Molly was wearing a dress he had never seen. It was a cobalt blue, and complimented her colouring and the red and gold glints in her chestnut hair. She was smiling, the bright blue dress and big, ridiculous hair bow just screaming "Molly." In the background, he became aware that his own violin compositions were providing an accompaniment. He didn't bother to stop the tears flowing freely from his eyes. He felt safe here and could go ahead and cry, although he rarely did so. He didn't think he deserved the balm that tears brought with them, however briefly it lasted.

An odd thing happened next. He fell asleep, tears still staining his cheeks. It wasn't until the morning light came through the front windows of 221B that Sherlock awoke. He could not remember the last time he had slept for seven hours straight. Riffling his fingers through his hair, he stumbled to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. Then he made his way to the shower, realising with a sniff that he was distinctly NOT fresh-smelling.

Thirty minutes later, he emerged, washed and shaven, smelling of his customary woodsy/spicy shampoo and soap and feeling better than he had in days. His hair he left just towel-dried- the curls would have to behave themselves on their own today. He looked at the coffee pot, poured a mug, added sugar, and drank it while he listened to the news on the telly, for once not correcting the reader. Realising that he was still in just his pants and a tee shirt (both worn inside-out), he threw on jeans and a green tweedy jumper and trainers, and trotted down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat and knocked. She had just made some fresh raisin scones, and Sherlock always had a knack for knowing when they were ready. She was surprised and delighted when he grabbed one, spread it with jam and sat at her table, fingers drumming out an unknown rhythm on her tabletop.

"So, then, dear- feeling better today? Are you planning on seeing Mycroft?" Mrs. Hudson asked, while fixing him a cup of tea. She noted his appearance was less haggard than usual, and it seemed he had showered and shaved- a definite improvement. Sherlock looked more like his old self than he had in weeks. She fervently hoped he was coming out the other side of whatever had been making him so depressed, but dared not hope for it even in her thoughts. Sherlock finished the scone and grabbed another, preparing it the same way as the first. He looked off into the middle distance for a while, absently chewing; then frowned and answered.

"No, I think I'll just work on my music for a bit and then maybe- well, erm, maybe my journal?" he trailed off and looked uncomfortable, then frowned again. He finished the scone, and stood, ready to go back upstairs, uncertain as to what exactly he was doing here. He raked his fingers through his curls in frustration, and frowned.

"Well, Sherlock, I don't mean to pry- I'm sure you have things to do. You're welcome here any time, you know." Mrs. Hudson said, to fill the void. "I'll be going out to do some shopping- let me know if you need anything, all right, dear? I'll pick up some milk at any rate- and some of those biscuits you fancy." The poor thing practically lived on tea, coffee, and chocolate biscuits- but at least he got some calories into him that way. She sometimes made him things like pasta, sneaking a few finely chopped vegetables into the sauce. He always knew, but didn't mind them, so he ate.

Sherlock took her remarks as an excuse to leave, and quickly ascended the seventeen steps to his flat. He picked up his violin and sat on the sofa, flipping the bow end over end and then applying more rosin. He ran a few scales, satisfied that the instrument was in tune; then played a few lines of the piece he was presently composing. A clear, plaintive tune was soon echoing around the flat.

 _And how are you feeling today, Sherlock? -MH_

 **Fine. I slept for 7 hours. - SH**

 _And are you more rested now? -MH_

 **Of course- Mycroft, I am fine. There is no need to sound like an 18** **th** **century toff...- SH**

 _Ah! Back to your sweet self, I see. - MH_

 **Nonsense- I am merely aggravated by your prying. - SH**

 _Well, then, I must be doing something right. - MH_

 **I have to go. - SH**

 _Take care, little brother. Best of luck in your composing. - MH_

 **I don't believe in luck. Goodbye, Mycroft. Go meddle in some country's politics. - SH**

Mycroft sighed. Well, at his best, Sherlock had been prickly since he was a child. He supposed it was foolish to expect any major changes in that area.

 _ **A/N- Well, Sherlock is definitely still depressed- will we find out why soon? Thanks for reading and reviewing!**_


	3. Chapter 3

Fearfully And Wonderfully Made - Chapter 3

Mycroft's mind wandered back in time to when Sherlock was an infant - they should have realised even then that something was very different about the youngest Holmes. At first, he could only be calmed by swaddling him firmly; then a few weeks later, swaddling him only made him scream for hours. Sherlock didn't want to be touched by anyone, and would often stiffen and cry out. When this had first appeared, the doctors thought he might have a seizure disorder. After several EEGs with no conclusive results, and putting Sherlock onto anti-convulsants for several months (which did make him calmer, but only because they knocked him out), they tapered off the medications and thought he was just a child who rejected touch.

But, Sherlock did NOT resist touch at all times. He learnt to recognise Mummy's touch and smell and voice. As befitting her name, she wore violet perfume at all times. He thrived when in her presence, when she focused on him. When she wanted to be more present for her children, Violet Holmes was not at all a bad mother; just out of her depth when faced with her youngest.

Mycroft had been such an easy baby. He was always smiling, and had a very jolly disposition. Both sons were brilliant, she discovered to her delight. Mycroft excelled in languages and communication.

At a very tender age, Sherlock in particular had a flair for chemistry, and was always performing experiments in his room, the kitchen, outside in the gardens. When he was in a more moderate mood, Mummy had no trouble helping to teach Sherlock, and found his mind was ever-eager to learn. She soon determined that he had an eidetic memory, and could regurgitate entire books if need be.

The difficulties began with his being over-stimulated, and then Violet just melted away, leaving Mycroft to deal with his younger brother. Sherlock seemed to prefer him at these times, so she left them alone more and more. Eventually, she hardly interacted with Sherlock at all, feeling that perhaps she was one of his triggers for the disturbing behaviours. One of the prevailing theories was that autism was caused by a "frozen mother" - perhaps they were right, she thought, though Sherlock had no such diagnosis.

Everything had bothered Sherlock - tags in clothing, ties ( he had always said they felt as though they were choking him), certain textures of food or fabric, loud noises, bright lights, and too many people. Sherlock even wore his underclothes inside-out; saying the seams bothered him, a method he still employed to this day. He often ran out of the house and Mycroft spent many hours searching for his younger brother, usually finding him up a tree or sitting at the base of one with arms curled around himself and rocking; or with hands and feet flying, keeping a beat that only Sherlock heard.

He was easily overwhelmed and then either shut down or melted down. Of the two, the shutting down was easier to manage, especially if there were guests in the house. Mycroft had learned the early signs of a pending overload at a young age; the drumming of his fingers, hands flying, walking on his toes, squinting to block out too much light - and there were so many more subtle signs. Sherlock seemed to sense this, usually complying with Mycroft's attempts at taking him out of the situation.

This had some very far-reaching effects. The immediate one was getting his brother out of what was becoming an intolerable situation for him and helping him to calm himself down. When things were really bad, Sherlock would sit in the middle of his bed and rock, making soft noises that cut Mycroft to the quick. He seemed to be terrified of something that was within his own mind. That was when he began to construct his mind palace, with Mycroft's aid. For a time it seemed to help Sherlock to put away some of the more troublesome symptoms, but it didn't last for long.

Worse than the shutting down were the meltdowns. If he could not take any more stimulation, Sherlock would start acting out by becoming very loud, making vocalisations that were not in any known language. He would become very stiff and resist any effort to move him, becoming hysterical and crying out, throwing a full-on tantrum complete with lying on the floor thrashing about, angry and out of control.

Worst of all was the head-banging, as it seemed that Sherlock was actively trying to beat the racing thoughts out of his head. Usually when Sherlock got to this point, only some sedation worked. Mycroft gave him the medicine orally if he could get it into him, by injection if he could not. He had learned to give the injections because no one else seemed to have any desire to learn.

Neither of their parents ever seemed to notice this behaviour, other than that it was upsetting to them and unsuitable for company. They only looked very disappointed and hurried their guests away to another part of the house. Of course, by this time, neither of their parents noticed much of anything about their two children. Mycroft always had the feeling, once he was old enough to think about it, that they had produced the requisite "heir and spare" and decided their family obligations were complete, and the Holmes family holdings and finances had been protected.

Mycroft was the eldest and clearly preferred child. He had no unfortunate outbursts which might embarrass Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. He would have to be the one to care for his younger, more infantile brother. They only hoped they could find a boarding school which would take Sherlock when he was old enough. Keeping him at home without Mycroft was out of the question unless a caretaker could be found.

This attitude was not the best for either son, but Sherlock seemed more affected. He dearly loved Mummy and tried his best to please her. For his troubles he usually received no more than a pat on the head, the kind one would give to an obedient hound. It was almost worse than being totally ignored. When he was sent away to school Mycroft was very worried about Sherlock, and phoned frequently to check in with him and ask about his latest experiments and the like.


	4. Chapter 4

Fearfully And Wonderfully Made - Chapter 4

The four years after Mycroft was sent away to school were extremely traumatic for Sherlock. Mycroft had been tutored at home until he was 11, making Sherlock 4. Their parents decided that Sherlock was old enough to tolerate his older brother going away to school, but this was an unfortunate misunderstanding. Since his whole constitution craved consistency, having Mycroft away was quickly becoming intolerable for the younger Holmes. His outbursts increased in frequency and severity. His parents looked on without a clue as to how best to care for him. A young man was hired as a full-time tutor and caretaker, but his instructions were vague. They mostly consisted of keeping Sherlock out of sight and ensuring he would not misbehave and embarrass his parents. Otherwise, the man, Mr. Smythe, was left on his own to craft a plan of action.

His plan, unfortunately, consisted mainly of medications and punishments for behaviour that was deemed "not appropriate", a favourite one being that Sherlock was shut into his wardrobe. If he protested the imprisonment too much, the time only increased, so Sherlock learned to accept it with little fuss. He hated the feeling of being sedated. It made him feel too sluggish. He also developed blinding migraines, which were shrugged off as "nervous headaches" and not treated. A good day meant he was only confined to his room, and could read, do some chemistry experiments, or play his violin. He rarely ever saw his parents. The one saving grace in his day was Mycroft's phone call. That came daily now, as Mycroft had gathered that something was very wrong at home.

When he came home for the school holidays at Christmas, Mycroft was horrified to see the changes in his little brother. Always pale-skinned, he now seemed to be almost transparent, the blood vessels clearly visible in his arms and hands. He tried unsuccessfully to mask his fidgeting by moving his fingers in an approximation of violin exercises. He routinely stayed away from the windows and any chance of bright light getting into his too-sensitive eyes. Sherlock, who had loved to play in the wooded acres surrounding the house, now never went out of doors. The dark circles under his eyes were a permanent fixture. He moved about like a little ghost, not quite there...

He wore a perpetual frown, and flinched at the slightest change in tone of voice or any sudden movement near him. The final straw was Mycroft hearing Sherlock sobbing in the night in his room. When he went in, Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he clung to his older brother like a lifeline. Perhaps that was what Mycroft needed to be. He knew the present situation was not helping his younger brother. Maybe there was a school that specialised in children with – err - problems. He thought from his reading that Sherlock might have some form of autism, but that was only a conjecture.

He decided to investigate further. He noticed that Sherlock only interacted with Mr. Smythe, and didn't see his parents for days at a time. It seemed they had solved a distasteful problem and went on with their lives. Even Mummy only occasionally laid eyes on Sherlock, and avoided touching him as if he were a leper. Each time they met in the corridor, Sherlock had such a wistful look, but his mother never smiled at him or held him any more. No one touched him. Mycroft resolved to do more.

Mycroft had researched a school that took on special-needs children. It appeared to be a regular public boarding school on the outside. It specialised in treating autistic children and children with other emotional and physical issues. Mycroft arranged for Sherlock and himself to meet with the headmaster, and see about the application process. He had briefly mentioned a school for Sherlock to his father, who looked gratefully at his eldest son and told him to make any arrangements he thought necessary so that Sherlock could be admitted somewhere for the next term. Money was not a problem.

The black car driven by the Holmes' chauffeur pulled up at the front entrance to St. Jude's. What a terrible, yet fitting, name - the patron saint of hopeless causes. Sherlock exited the car after Mycroft, clearly fearful, but willing to go with his brother. As he gazed around the entrance hall, his eyes were huge, but he seemed interested. There were paintings in the lobby, and Sherlock walked around so that he could study each one. He often tilted his head and looked at an angle this way or that. Mycroft had not seen his brother so interested in anything other than his books and experiments for a long time.

Soon, a door opened on the left of the lobby, and a pleasant-looking woman in her mid-40s (married, one daughter) approached. She introduced herself as Dr. Alison Taylor, and asked Sherlock if he wanted to see more of the school. If she was surprised to see two boys alone, she did not comment on it. To Mycroft's surprise and relief, Sherlock nodded, as if he didn't trust himself to use his voice just yet. They passed classes in session. Mycroft was pleased to see small class sizes and children allowed to move about during class. They went on to an area that was obviously used for arts - Sherlock immediately walked over to an easel and studied the partially finished piece carefully.

They also visited the cafeteria. There were a number of offerings. Mycroft was again pleased at what he saw. There were foods of many types, shapes, and textures, as well as differing temperatures. He smiled, thinking that maybe even Sherlock could find foods here that met his needs. Then they went upstairs to the dormitory areas.

Each student had his own bedroom with a desk and en-suite bathroom. Every four rooms opened onto a larger common area equipped with sofas, a telly, bookshelves, and games. There was ample space for the students if they wanted to interact but each person still had a space to call his own. Mycroft found himself hoping that Sherlock would qualify for admission.


	5. Chapter 5

After they visited the rooms, the Holmes brothers were taken back down to the offices. Sherlock was more nervous by this point, his fingers drumming on any available surface, hands starting to flick. His eyes were darting around, but not looking anyone directly in the eye. Well, thought Mycroft, if he were to be tested, now was the time for the school to see just what they were going to be dealing with as far as behaviours. Just then the door on the right opened, and a man who was about 45 and about 5'10" tall, had warm brown eyes and balding dark brown hair walked toward them. Mycroft noted that he was married, had one- no, two, children, a boy and a girl, and a large dog with longish fur. The man indicated they should follow him into his office.

Mycroft got up to follow him- his brother was already in motion. Walking on his toes, hands flicking faster and faster, eyes darting about like he was seeking an escape route, Sherlock was so full of nervous energy that he seemed on fire. He did not give off the usual feeling that he was about to explode with anger, however. It was excitement to see what would happen next. His fingers started running back and forth in patterns. Mycroft recognised them as violin finger exercises. He could almost hear Sherlock counting in his head- numbers sometimes soothed him. Mycroft sat in the chair indicated by the man and watched his brother. So, he noted, did the man with the brown eyes.

"Sherlock," asked the man. "My name is Dr. Ferguson and I am the headmaster here. I have some puzzles for you to try- would that be agreeable? These puzzles are part of the admissions testing."

He took down a wooden box filled with odd-shaped pieces, and a flat wooden board for assembling them. He next set out a book with pictures of templates, using the shapes, in it. He went to the beginning of the book and selected one and showed it to Sherlock. "These are called tangrams. Do you think you could copy this design?"

Sherlock looked at Dr. Ferguson and then at the book and pieces of wood, all out of the sides of his eyes. He turned his head to look at Mycroft, who tried to look encouraging. "Is it all right if I do this?" Sherlock asked his brother.

"Of course, if that is what you wish, Sherlock. It is perfectly all right." Mycroft answered.

"Do I have to tell M-M-Mr. Smythe about it?" Sherlock asked, a frightened expression fleeting across his face, then disappearing, back under his firm control. "If I don't do this correctly, will I be locked in the closet again?" he asked.

From the side, Mycroft could see tears beginning to shine in his little brother's eyes, but he held them back bravely. This alarmed him greatly- what had been going on in that house? Mycroft assured him that Mr. Smythe would NOT be consulted about anything that happened here today. Sherlock visibly relaxed at this, and moved closer to the table and puzzle pieces.

Sherlock took a look at the design that could have lasted no more than a few seconds. He then went to the box of shapes and without hesitation, started picking out a number of the pieces. He placed them each in exactly the place they belonged, and finished the whole pattern so quickly that it seemed that his fingers moved without conscious thought. He stayed at the table, standing, tilted his head to the left, and squinted at Dr. Ferguson from the sides of his eyes. "Is that all right?" he asked the doctor, looking for all the world as if he were ready to scurry away at the slightest provocation.

Dr. Ferguson walked slowly to the table and viewed Sherlock's solution very seriously, taking his time. He looked pleased. "Well done, Sherlock. Would you like to try another?" he asked, adding a slight smile. Sherlock nodded, and the doctor set out a new pattern from the book. Again, Sherlock studied the pattern for a few seconds, then went to the box of shapes. This time, he drew out exactly the number of each shape that he needed to complete the picture. He finished very quickly and then looked to Dr. Ferguson for his reaction.

This surprised Mycroft- Sherlock almost never really noticed a new person, let alone looked to him for approval. Perhaps this school would be a good fit, after all. He felt himself hoping they would accept his little brother into the school. As the puzzles progressed to other types, Sherlock was more and more fully present, anticipating the next moves and figuring out the puzzles at an almost frenetic pace. He was excited, but happily so.

Dr. Ferguson then said to Sherlock, "Would you like to come into my office and we can talk a bit about the school, and what you would do here?" He smiled and held a hand out to Sherlock, not reaching or grabbing, but merely holding it out as an invitation. Sherlock glanced back at Mycroft, who nodded, indicating that he would wait where he was. Amazingly, his younger brother, although not accepting the proffered hand, went through into the next room with Dr. Ferguson.

Mycroft knew the doctor wanted to interview Sherlock on his own. They were gone for quite a while. When they returned through the doorway, Sherlock was fidgety but not acting out too badly. He was still flapping his hands and walking on his toes. He looked excited, like he did when something new had caught his interest. Mycroft hoped it meant that the testing had been varied enough for Dr. Ferguson to see what he needed, to determine whether they could help Sherlock. Since they had been there for quite a while, Dr. Ferguson suggested they visit the cafeteria for a snack.

When they arrived in the cafeteria, Sherlock stayed close to Mycroft, looking at everything very carefully. Mycroft showed Sherlock where the trays were, and walked in front of his brother in the line. Sherlock looked at all the food very carefully from several angles, and selected some carrot sticks, apple slices, and a cup of vanilla custard, along with some decaffeinated green tea (the only kind offered). To Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock ate a little of all the food, and drank the tea. They then returned to Dr. Ferguson's office to discuss his findings.

Dr. Ferguson motioned to the chairs in front of his desk, and the Holmes brothers sat. He began telling them about his impressions. "I believe that Sherlock would indeed benefit from the programs here at St. Jude's. Initially, I would say he almost certainly has Asperger's Syndrome. It is similar to autism, but the person has more difficulties with social interaction, and not so much with delayed language or intellectual abilities. Many of the behaviours I have observed are consistent with this diagnosis, although it will be subject to revision, as are all initial impressions, in 3 and then 6 months' time, and as needed thereafter, of course. The behaviours such as the hand flapping, rocking, "side-eyeing" other people and things, are called "stimming", and seem to both help use the extra energy and to soothe anxiety. We will of course, adjust his classes and treatment accordingly. Evaluations are done at frequent intervals, and the instructors keep detailed notes on each student. There may be additional diagnoses, most probably generalised anxiety disorder, which may need to be treated with medication, at least for a while until Sherlock has learned some more coping behaviours, and perhaps longer. If necessary, anxiolytics can be taken for the long term."

"Dr. Ferguson, may I speak to you alone for a moment?" asked Mycroft. He desperately wanted Sherlock here at the school, because it was a place of such peacefulness and the staff were obviously well-trained in dealing with children with problems like Sherlock's. Dr. Ferguson nodded, and Sherlock went back out to the lobby, where Dr. Taylor was waiting to talk with him. Sherlock watched her "sideways", but he didn't shut down.

"Doctor, I believe my little brother may have suffered some physical and emotional abuse in our family home, as well. I have been away at school this past year, and I have seen a marked change for the worse in Sherlock. Each time I return he seems more withdrawn and sadder. There is a person engaged there to teach him and generally act as caretaker, but my brother seems frightened to death of him. Sherlock made a statement to me while we were waiting to begin the tangram puzzles that led me to believe he has been subjected to much corporal punishment. Our parents are not punitive, but they are totally out of their depth with Sherlock and leave his care to this so-called tutor."

A/N I realised that I had posted Ch6 in the place of Ch5, so tonight I am correcting this- sorry, thanks for understanding my error! This is all my fault, I am good at it sometimes!

~joan


	6. Chapter 6

"I assume that there is a physical examination as a part of the admission process? I would ask that you have one of the physicians here do that exam, so I can be assured that the findings are impartial and correct. I wish to know if there has been any other abuse or any indications of self-harm." Mycroft said all of this quickly in a piece- he was more upset than he tried to show, but wanted to find out what had happened once and for all.

"Of course, we will do this- if you would like to be present with Sherlock, that will be all right. It is, unfortunately, not unusual to find instances of abuse or neglect of one kind or another with children who present, shall we say, a more challenging approach-? We can do most of the preliminary paperwork today while you are here. You can take papers home to be signed by your parents, but I understand you are in charge of arranging Sherlock's care with us." Dr. Ferguson answered. "If the consent is obtained, we can arrange for Sherlock's admission to the school as soon as the beginning of the next term, which is in three weeks."

Mycroft let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding at the thought. He replied, " I do not think that will be any problem, as my parents are beyond their limit when it comes to dealing with Sherlock. They are of the opinion that if he can be cared for somewhere out of sight of their social circle, so much the better. That is why I am here with Sherlock today. If I recommend the school, I think there is little chance that they will not follow my recommendation."

"Well, then, I will begin arranging for his admission." Dr. Ferguson said, and shook Mycroft's hand. "I believe that Sherlock will fit well at our school, and will thrive here when he has adjusted to the routines. He will be safe here and there is no corporal punishment."

Dr. Ferguson then said, " You are a remarkable young man, Mr. Holmes- and I can see that you love your brother dearly to care so much for his well-being and his future. Please feel free to phone at any time to check on Sherlock- or with us."

"I will be in touch by phone, and send the papers to you.." Mycroft replied, and turned to join Sherlock outside. Sherlock was watching some koi in a shallow pond that wound through one of the areas in the lobby. He seemed fascinated by the sparkling fish darting about. Even after all the new surroundings and testing, he was stimming along, fingers flying. Mycroft thanked Dr. Taylor for watching his brother while he talked with Dr. Ferguson, and told Sherlock they would be leaving now to return home. He was not surprised to see Sherlock's face return to its more usual tense expression. If coming to this school could ease that anxiety, it was well worth the price.

Mycroft sighed, returning to the present, more than 25 years since that day. Sherlock had got some decent sleep last night for a change, and actually ate something at Mrs. Hudson's, although it was only scones and jam. Still, that was infinitely preferable to nothing at all. He wanted to be hopeful that Sherlock was coming out of the deep depression he had been in, but he alone knew the reason behind it for sure. Again his thoughts regressed, to the time immediately after Sherlock's Fall from St. Bart's rooftop.

When he got the call the evening prior to the confrontation between Sherlock and James Moriarty, Mycroft had become alarmed, and wanted Sherlock to put his plans on hold to give Mycroft time to assist. Sherlock, however, insisted that time was of the essence so that Moriarty would not suspect that there WAS a plan in place. Reluctantly, Mycroft had to agree. He didn't like it one bit that his brother's fate rested with his timid little pathologist, Molly Hooper.

Still, the plan had worked, and Sherlock had only minor injuries for the most part. The most worrying was a slight concussion and a few cracked ribs, but after a few days he seemed to be on the mend. It could have been so much worse if Sherlock had not planned his fall as well as he had. He refused any help from his brother or the government, and instead stayed at Molly's flat. Mycroft had informed her through nondescript minions that anything she needed to care for Sherlock would be delivered as soon as she contacted him to request it, and gave her an untraceable mobile phone.

Sherlock and Molly had grown closer during the time he spent recovering. That worried his brother a great deal. He was well aware of Ms. Hooper's affection for his brother, and feared it might prove detrimental to Sherlock in the end. However, she seemed to maintain a friendly relationship only, so Mycroft did not go ahead with his plans to place cameras in her flat; well, except for ones at the entrance and windows, so that he could watch for any unscrupulous visitors.

If Mycroft had really known what was happening in Molly Hooper's flat, he would not have been so complacent. Molly had indeed taken care of Sherlock, mothering him through his injuries and insisting he rest- and to her surprise, he listened to her. That had alarmed her at first, and she again went over him with a fine-toothed comb, looking for other hidden injuries that she was sure must be present. But she found only some bruises, a couple of cracked ribs, a few mild lacerations and scrapes, and of course, the concussion. At last she relaxed and thought that the enormity of the fall, the loss of his friends (although temporary), and his upcoming mission to destroy Moriarty's web of criminals was taking a greater toll on Sherlock than she at first suspected. It was a major undertaking, after all, and even Sherlock Holmes had feelings (though he would never admit it).

Sherlock stayed with Molly for nearly a month, until "his" pathologist was satisfied that he would have no deficiency that would affect him. Then he cut and dyed his hair and sent Molly out for clothing more suitable for his new way of life, reckoning once he was out of the city, he could supplement his wardrobe as needed. He threw a few things in a rucksack, with a medical kit stocked by Molly added. He left one night and told her if he were able, he would text occasionally. His texts to and occasionally from Molly (via the unregistered mobile) were the only thing that kept him even close to sane at many times during his time away. She was a link to his former life, and the person he could always count on, to encourage and help him in any way she could.

That was the bare bones of what happened during Sherlock's sojourn with Molly. Sherlock found himself depending on her for not only medical care, but also, increasingly, friendship and, if he were to admit the truth- comfort. It had been too many years since anyone had touched him with a caring hand, and he found himself growing accustomed to her touch. It relaxed him and somehow, the constant clamour in his brain seemed to quiet down when she was near.

Molly was not a fool. Neither was she a person to take advantage of someone who was clearly out of his depth as far as relationships went. She kept her interactions with Sherlock on a friendly level, but did hold him and rub his back or his forehead and neck when he had headaches after the fall. He slept better with her holding him in her bed, and was thankful for the warmth and comfort. He also grew comfortable with Molly running her fingers through his curls as he lay on her sofa, distractedly watching her favourite shows on the telly. He still didn't understand the appeal of Dr. Who (John had watched it with great relish, too), but he watched it with Molly, as he had with John. Molly was warm and caring, and right now he found that it was just what he needed to help him to recover and to plan his mission. She was never interfering, and was respectful of the time he spent in his mind palace, only nudging him when it was time for meals or tea. She never made him feel like a "freak", that word that Donovan used which always hurt, though he tried not to show it.

Sherlock was not in a position to take things any further, even if he had wanted to- and he was not sure about that. He had from a young age tried to push away any feelings- they only hurt him in the end. The abandonment by his parents- even Mummy!- had hurt Sherlock deeply, and he vowed nothing would do that to him again. Although he knew logically that his older brother had in fact saved him from a life in a mental institution, he chose to be very curt and confrontational, even with him. As Sherlock grew older, Mycroft had always reminded him, "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." Sherlock took this warning seriously for many years.

Sherlock had never indulged in any of the usual sexual rites of passage- it just didn't signify for him. He had no need for sentiment- or so he deceived himself for many years. That was probably due more to Sherlock's greatest fear- intimacy. If he got too close to someone, they might see him for what he really was inside, and abandon him; and the cycle would begin again. It had been no problem for him to reject the advances of Irene Adler- though he WAS intrigued by her intelligence. He would not jeopardise what he had with Molly, he needed her too much- yes, he admitted it, if only to himself.

A/N This is Ch6 where it really belongs- so sorry for the mix-up, it was totally my fault. I hope that you enjoy both chapter in their proper places now.

~joan


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft again brought himself back to the present and thought he should check in with his little brother-

 _How goes the composition, brother dear? -MH_

 **It is going along well enough - SH**

 _Still doing the arranging for full orchestra? - MH_

 **Yes- strings are finished, working on brass and woodwinds – SH**

 _I must say, you are remarkably industrious. Good to know you are feeling better. - MH_

 **Better is relative, but the music does help. - SH**

 _Well, then, brother, I'll leave you to it- don't hesitate to call – MH_

 **Of course- thank you- SH**

Sherlock's admission to St. Jude's, having been agreed to by his parents in an almost indecent hurry, had been a life saver in so many ways. From the first day there, he knew he had found a safe haven. Although he had Mycroft to thank, he resented being in his brother's debt, as he saw it.

The physical exam proceeded pretty well, given Sherlock's aversion to being touched in general by someone he didn't know. He seemed relatively at ease with Dr. Ferguson, though; a fact for which Mycroft was grateful. Besides finding that Sherlock was obviously undernourished (no doubt due largely to his own poor eating habits, but not helped by his parents' and the caretaker's neglect); they found healed scars on his back, arms, and legs that were the result of many beatings with something long and thin, possibly a stick or malacca cane. To Mycroft's great relief, there was no evidence of any broken bones or sexual abuse. All the external wounds had long healed. What further trauma remained in his brother's mind, however, was impossible to calculate.

Sherlock was expected to behave in a mostly socially acceptable manner, but the teachers there understood that their students needed help in picking up the cues that neurotypical children understood almost from birth. There were accommodations made in the school for the hypersensitive children. There were several rooms available for taking a break from even the decreased stimulation found at St. Jude's, and Sherlock soon found himself taking advantage of them when he was too stressed. He also learned better how to see that he was getting more agitated and to walk away from the situation. He learned to take slow deep breaths and let them out even more slowly when he felt a panic attack coming on. One of the very best new ways to cope was a weighted blanket. It was filled with plastic beads, like the ones that could be found in a bean-bag chair. They were sewn into small compartments on the blanket, and weighed a few kilos. Covering himself with the blanket was like being wrapped in an all-over hug, but one that provided a sense of security and served to greatly decrease his anxiety. It was one thing that Sherlock employed to this very day- although he kept the blanket in his bedroom, not wanting anyone to know he needed help to manage his anxiety.

Whilst at St. Jude's, Sherlock found something that was to become not only a stress reducer, but a creative outlet. He started taking serious violin lessons. He had begun them at home but the music teacher saw only a boy who couldn't always keep still and who disrupted the lessons. He didn't know that Sherlock was reacting to the stress level created by parents whom he could never please, and who had stopped paying any attention to him at all, even to the point where Mummy no longer came in at bedtime to tuck him up and say goodnight. This was especially hard for Sherlock, who craved her loving touch so much.

The music teacher there saw that Sherlock seemed to be gifted musically, and encouraged him to learn more and more difficult music. The teacher didn't mind his students walking about the room if they needed to while learning. Sherlock used his growing mind palace to easily memorise many of his favourite pieces and spent hours in his room, practising. He even began to compose, finding in the rhythms and notes a kind of solace for his too-busy mind. His eidetic memory gave him perfect pitch. He found that with very little effort, he could actually hear the music in his head, and it helped him concentrate. Sometimes when he was in class and becoming restive, even thinking about a piece of music could help to calm him enough to finish the session. His headaches decreased.

All told, St. Jude's was very good for Sherlock. He learned a regular curriculum and excelled in the sciences, as he loved to read anything that caught his interest. The social skills classes were invaluable, although Sherlock would need some prompting all of his life. He understood empathy and compassion as concepts, but didn't really internalise them. When they were both at home for school holidays, Mycroft was pleased at Sherlock's progress and that he seemed to be more in control. His violin playing was excellent, and once, Mummy even praised him for it. Sherlock's expression at that crumb of affection from his mother was achingly hard for Mycroft to witness. Their parents seemed well pleased with Sherlock's progress, but, still fearing they might jeopardise his new-found equilibrium, stayed in the background as always.

Sherlock always felt he was lacking in some desired quality, one that he could never quite grasp. It made his present attitude of seeming not to care, much more understandable. His brother reinforced that idea, telling him that sentiment and love were to be avoided at all costs. Mycroft knew that deep inside, Sherlock did have feelings, and desperately wanted to be loved for himself alone. He just could not figure out who would possibly do that, or why, since he was so obviously defective. He learned to compensate for this with arrogance, which fooled and effectively put off most people. The same could be said for his "uniform" of bespoke clothing, which were both made of comfortable fabric, with all seams buried within layers, and fit him like a glove, providing a type of comfort in themselves. Mycroft didn't want to think what this latest set of occurrences might do to his brother's fragile grip on the fabric of reality.

Even after years of medication- which Sherlock had finally refused; and breathing techniques, he was still always anxious underneath. His anxiety was a constant presence, and had accelerated the descent into drug use. When he got to uni and was less stringently watched, it was only a short time until he indulged in many illegal substances. Between the anxiety and the ever-present racing of his thoughts, Sherlock's mind would seldom let him rest, or even eat properly. He was an overdose or psychotic break waiting to happen.

He had begun smoking at an early age and quickly increased his use of cigarettes, claiming they helped him to think more clearly. The recent use of nicotine patches served a dual purpose. They both spared his lungs and helped him to think. It was a reasonable accommodation at present.

Mycroft didn't think it was so much about Sherlock being an addictive personality- he just thought that his brother was desperately trying to shut off the constant stream of thoughts that would not let him rest. He developed a particular liking for anything that would seem to speed up most people, but strangely, calmed down his thoughts. His over-active brain just needed to focus on something external, or it tended to lead Sherlock into temptation, and trouble. Trying to quiet his mind was tantamount to stopping a jet engine at full speed.

Mycroft again thought back to Sherlock and the building of his mind palace. Mycroft had suggested it after reading of a similar method of cataloguing and storing memories. It seemed that perhaps this would help Sherlock gain some control over his growing compendium of facts, figures, and whatnot. Since Sherlock had decided on being the world's only consulting detective, he needed to have so many facts at hand. He was almost gleeful when his older brother had explained the technique, and embarked as soon as he could manage it, in building and arranging the contents. The fact that Sherlock deemed it a palace was most amusing, Mycroft thought. But then, Sherlock would never have just a mind library or warehouse, would he? He let a small smile flicker across his face.

For many years now, this had been Sherlock's primary way of accessing his compiled knowledge of forensics, psychology, so many subjects that Mycroft hardly knew how he would begin to explain it to someone else. It had served Sherlock well, and Mycroft also hoped that stored in there somewhere were the facts and possible sequelae of his drug use, should that become too tempting in future. It gave him a reason to relax his filial vigilance ever so slightly.

John Watson had come along at a very good time in Sherlock's life. He had been the first person to get under Sherlock's skin a bit. His unfailing loyalty, his willingness to place himself in harm's way for Sherlock, affected him more than he ever expressed. John also possessed a good moral compass and served as a reminder when Sherlock strayed from what most would consider proper conversation or behaviour. He was not in love with John, nor did he have any sexual feelings toward him, contrary to the opinions of many people. He did, however, develop a very close (for Sherlock) friendship and camaraderie with the ex-soldier, and looked to him when he was unsure of his footing in social situations. John Watson was the first person to really become a friend in many years.

A/N Well, we have taken quite a trip in to the past- will these musings help Mycroft with his brother now? Thanks for your reviews. All the praise to my Beta, LilSherlockian1975 - you rock!

~joan


	8. Chapter 8

**Mycroft? Are you there? - SH**

 _Yes, Sherlock- what is it?- MH_

 **When are we going to the house again? - SH**

 _I hadn't planned on it yet- why? MH_

 **Just- lonely, I suppose – SH**

 _Sherlock, we've discussed this. - MH_

 **But, I only want to visit- SH**

 _I'll be there in a moment – MH_

Mycroft sighed as he entered 221B and walked up the seventeen steps. He had such hopes for one day of peace for and (and if he were completely honest) from his little brother. But Sherlock had always come before his own leisure, ever since he was born. Mycroft had quickly appointed himself as Sherlock's guardian in all things, and the feeling only grew with time and with Sherlock's increasing oddness and their parents' lack of nurturing. He walked into the flat and saw Sherlock at the window, violin in hand. The music stand was overflowing with manuscript paper, the pages filled with Sherlock's jagged, yet precise, notation. He seldom had to play more than a snippet of a new theme before he wrote it down, since he was able to hear it in his head and make adjustments.

For someone who had started the day with a decidedly better outlook than usual, Sherlock now seemed dejected and sad. Mycroft thought to himself that his little brother's moods had become increasingly labile lately. Sherlock walked over and slumped on the sofa, still not verbally acknowledging his brother's presence, but Mycroft knew he was aware of it. He lay the violin in its case beside him, but his fingers continued running through complicated patterns, his feet starting to keep the same rhythm that his fingers measured out. He stared as though looking at a screen, probably searching for some flaw or change that he wanted to make in the music he had written that day. His pale eyes flickered back and forth as if he were reading.

"Sherlock? You did want me here, did you not?" asked his older brother. Sherlock had added bobbing his right leg up and down to his stimming, still looking for something within. He felt as if he almost had it...He put his hands up in front of his face as if he were physically searching a list, shook his head and kept searching. His gaze seemed farther away.

"Sherlock! Do you hear me? What is it that you need? Shall I send out for some takeaway? Indian perhaps? You know you enjoy that curry dish-?" Mycroft tried again, and at Sherlock's continued lack of a reply, took out his mobile and ordered the takeaway anyway, thinking that maybe his brother would eat if there was something available.

"Hm- what? Um, yeah, that'd be all right, thanks." Sherlock finally replied about ten minutes later.

Mycroft had, in the meantime, put the kettle on to boil. When it did, he got the pot down and made tea, getting out two cups- he might as well eat something as well, he supposed. He put the cups and teapot on a tray and added milk and spoons and sugar for Sherlock. For once, there was enough space on the coffee table for the tea tray- or there was when Sherlock lifted his legs off it and sat up properly.

"Can we go to the house next weekend? I should be finished with my symphony then and I could play it for her- please, Mycroft, I know it would make her smile if she heard it." pleaded Sherlock. "I know it'd be only the violin part, but the themes are all there and she would enjoy it, I am sure."

"Sherlock, you know that-" Mycroft began, but was silenced by Sherlock.

"That doesn't mean I can't play it for her to hear, does it?" he said sharply.

"No, Sherlock, it does not mean that it would not be a pleasant sound to her ears, you know that." Mycroft said, surprisingly gently. "I just don't want you to think that-"

"Don't say it, Mycroft, you don't know!" Sherlock was trying very hard not to break down now, he was doing breathing exercises- Mycroft could almost count with him in his head. Sherlock grabbed two handfuls of hair and tugged. Then he got up and paced some more. Unshed tears were bright in his eyes and threatening to brim over. "Never say that- no one can know for sure..."

Not wishing to end the evening with a face or lap full of Indian curry and hot tea, Mycroft relented. "I will phone in the morning and arrange for us to go up to the house next Friday afternoon. Did you want to ask John and Mary to go along with you?"

"Yes. I think I would. They will likely have an announcement to make, and it will be a pleasant getaway for them. Besides, John has never been to the house before, and he knows her-" Sherlock said, quietly, a sound that was almost a sob leaving his lips with that last. He paced about the room a few times, before sitting back down finally.

"Indeed he does, dear brother, indeed he does. Now, shall we have dinner? It's getting quite late and you have only had the scones early this morning, besides a few cups of that mud you call coffee." his older brother said. "Shall I be mother?" he added rather snidely, knowing it usually got a harumph in reaction from Sherlock. He was amused to see the smirk that Sherlock could not avoid.

"Oh, all right, if I must. Do you want a tray for your takeaway?" asked Mycroft. He observed his brother- stimming slowing down, feet and hands occupied with getting the trays for their food. It was really very interesting to see how much calmer Sherlock was getting, even with just the promise of a trip to the country house.

" What? Oh, yeah, that would be okay. I guess I could eat a bit. Oh, and there's tea!" Sherlock said brightly, just discovering the tea things set out on the table- he was "back" a bit more now. He fixed his tea and brought in the food, and proceeded to eat a small portion- for Sherlock it was a lot. Knowing when to choose his battles, his older brother made no comment.

"That gives me several more full days before we leave- I know I will be finished the music by then. All of it, I mean, the full orchestration." Sherlock said while he was eating. "Do you think your friend who is a conductor would take a look at it, just to see if it needs any tweaking?"

"I am sure that Adrian would be happy to do it- and especially if he might be permitted to conduct the orchestra at its première," answered Mycroft. "I assume you have a title, and it is the obvious choice."

"Yes, of course, it is - what else could it be? There would be no symphony, no cases solved, no- anything, otherwise. All would be lost. All was almost lost." replied Sherlock in a small voice, looking as if he wanted to retreat again into the mind palace, but for the moment, he was staying in the present with his brother.

That, in itself was a positive sign. Mycroft stayed through the late news broadcast, then told Sherlock to go get ready for bed. While Sherlock changed, Mycroft made up the fire and lighted it. When Sherlock had returned from the en-suite, dressed in fresh pyjamas and his blue dressing gown, Mycroft bid his brother a good night, with an admonishment to text him if he needed anything at all, or if he were unable to get to sleep. Sherlock lay down on the sofa, and tucked the crocheted blanket that Mrs. Hudson had made one Christmas around him. Mycroft frowned, walked to Sherlock's bedroom, and added another blanket, more solidly woven and weighted with plastic beads, on top; and left 221B. After he heard his brother exit the door downstairs, Sherlock tried to get to sleep.

A/N Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story. As usual, many thanks to my Beta, LilSherlockian1975 for her guidance and friendship.

~joan


	9. Chapter 9

He fell asleep rather quickly, and began to dream. He was walking through the streets of London, heading toward Molly's flat. He felt happy to be going there. He had been away for about seven months and was eager to see his friend again. Truth be told, he also wanted to feel her holding him and to be lying on her sofa with his head in her lap while she stroked his hair. He would have once shrugged this off as useless sentiment, but time away from everyone he cared about had made him a very changed man.

Then, he was there in Molly's place, seeing her, holding her- oh, god, this was the night that he had completely abandoned his plan to never fall prey to emotions. He watched helplessly again as he had started kissing her, wanting so much to be home with Molly and valued for himself. One thing led to another- he couldn't even say he had been inebriated, just lonely for so long. Molly, his only lifeline for so many weeks and months; and who had loved him since she first laid eyes on him, had also finally given in to the flood of feelings.

Strangely, he had not felt at all guilty at the time. They had been on an inevitable collision course for years. Molly never made him feel awkward or inept at social situations, and she did not that night. She was kind and loving and gently showed him what to do when he hesitated, and it had been wonderful. He began to see why people got completely caught up in the attendant feelings.

He woke the next morning, not knowing where he was at first- then the realisation of where he was and what had transpired hit him. Before he had time to feel embarrassed about the night before, Molly was carrying in a tray with breakfast for two. She was her usual cheerful self, and acted as if it were the most natural thing that they had shared their bodies the night before. Sherlock supposed that it _was_ natural, and past time that he had finally left his virginity behind. Another amazing thing resulted- making love with Molly (for he privately thought of it as such, sentimental or not) stopped the continuous buzzing and humming that constantly served as background "noise" in his head for a while.

Sherlock remained at Molly's for three weeks, the longest break he had taken from his task. He still had his network of people who sent him news of the remaining criminals he was tracking, so he did some work. Mostly he just stayed at the flat, resting and playing his violin- Molly had persuaded John to give it to her "as a remembrance of Sherlock," which he didn't have the heart to refuse. Just handling it made him feel calmer inside, and when he played, it was heavenly. And there was Molly, who always made him feel so loved. He grew more confident and considerate in their physical relationship. He had never hoped to have this in his life.

At the end of the three weeks, he told Molly he would be in touch when he could, embraced her, and accepted a bear hug from her along with a kiss; and for once reluctant to resume his work, Sherlock left in the night. He felt a physical ache in the region of his very present heart (yes, to the snarkier members of the Met, he did have one) when he left her.

Sherlock twisted and turned in his sleep, interrupting the dream. No, no, he wanted to go back there, he wasn't finished. He managed to slip back into a light sleep, but the dream had changed to the time before he came back to London. He then tried to force the original dream to resurface, but when he realised he was far too awake for that to happen, he sighed and got up. Well, three hours- that was more "normal" for him, he supposed, and walked to the kitchen area to put some coffee on. While it was brewing, he started the water in the shower, and stood under the hot water for a few minutes, still caught between waking and the dream he had been having. If there were any tears, they fell into the streaming water, where no one could see.

 **Mycroft, are you there?- SH**

 _I am here- bad dreams? -MH_

 **Yes, the same one – SH**

 _Are you all right? Do you need me to come over? - MH_

 **No, I just needed to know that we will be going to see her – SH**

 _We will be there in a few days, brother dear._ _ **-**_ _MH_

 **I guess I will be okay – SH**

 _You will be- I'll stop by with breakfast, you need to eat – MH_

 **See you then- SH**

Sherlock had a mug of coffee and turned on the morning news at 6, fussing at the news reader, correcting him. Where did they find these morons? He supposed that they were chosen more for their looks than any real talent at reading the news, and the weather people- oh, they were just ludicrous, they were so incompetent!

He turned off the news show when the cycle started to repeat, and since Mycroft had not yet appeared, he went and picked up his violin from its case. Sitting with it in his lap, he checked the bow as he always did and applied a fresh coating of rosin before drawing it across the strings. It sounded in tune, but he still spent a few minutes fine-tuning it to perfection, being able to hear the quarter-tones most people couldn't- until they heard the music start to sound slightly off.

When he felt it was tuned to his satisfaction, he stood and walked over to the window. This was his favourite spot to play and compose. This morning, a new motif was running through his head, so he tried it out. It sounded a bit brighter than his recent compositions, but he played it anyway, pleased that it seemed to write itself. After trying out a few variations, he set down the instrument and wrote furiously on the manuscript paper. It was a light airy thing, this new piece. Not like his usual music at all- what did it mean? Frowning, he looked up as Mycroft entered the flat, carrying a bag.

Sherlock walked over and put the kettle on. He knew that Mycroft rarely took coffee in the morning. He set out the tea things and sat at the table, which he had cleared off enough for them to eat. His brother set the contents of the bag out onto the table as well. There were a variety of dishes there, more than enough to make up a full breakfast for the two of them. They each chose some food, and began eating. Sherlock was feeling peckish, which in itself was odd- he had just eaten something the night before. He shrugged to himself and went on eating, drumming his fingers on the table until Mycroft frowned at him.

"So, little brother, did the dream change at all?" Mycroft asked him, sipping his tea.

"I didn't get all the way through it to see- usually if it changes, it is later in the narrative." Sherlock replied. " I woke up and couldn't get back to the first dream, which was the one I like most. I didn't even get to see her- I was still on the phone with Alexi in Belarus."

" It is curious that you dream about Dr. Hooper more than about the time while you were held captive, although that does occur. I do wish you would go to see Dr. Taylor the younger. She seemed to help you before," said Mycroft. "Perhaps if you went back on the antidepressant, you wouldn't be so troubled."

"But if I do that, I won't have any dreams that make any sense- they were all so out of kilter. At least this way, I get to see her smiling sometimes." Sherlock said, so softly he didn't know if his brother even heard him.

"Sherlock, you know you can visit her when you wish. I just don't think it is healthy for you to stay there and dwell on-" Mycroft began, but he was interrupted by his brother breaking in.

"I've tried it your way and I feel no better, in fact, I feel worse. I am packing some things for when I go and I will be staying for a while. I am not working on any current cases, I can't concentrate. Mycroft, I have to do this! I am going out of my mind trying to do things your way!" Sherlock's voice rose sharply until he was almost shouting as he jumped up from the chair and started pacing again, running his hands through his hair. He did this for a few minutes, then flopped onto the sofa and sat staring with his fingers steepled, retreating into his mind palace.

Mycroft knew when he was beaten. He said quietly, "Very well, Sherlock, I'll let the house know that you will be in residence for an indeterminate time. I'll ask that you keep in touch, and do try to get some sleep and food at decent intervals, please."

"Fine. Anything to get out of this flat and be where I want to be. I'll see Dr. Taylor- she is at least a known element- and she is as professional and competent as her mother was, at St. Jude's. I'll even take the damned antidepressants if it will make you feel more comfortable- I hate the way they make me feel so sluggish, but I will take them." Sherlock was bargaining now, desperate to get his way. "Maybe I should phone up John and Mary and see if they can stay longer, as well. Would that be agreeable?"

"Yes, that would make me feel much better, at least until you are settled there and we see how things go. I know that John would keep you safe and also be there to monitor your reaction to the meds. I can speak to their employers if that would help- let me know." Mycroft replied, looking a bit more secure with Sherlock's decision. He knew, of course, that John would do anything to help Sherlock. And he was sure that Mary would understand, once it was explained in more detail.

A/N- many. many thanks and unicorns to my Beta, LilSherlockian1975- you deserve all the rainbows! Thanks also to all who have reviewed this story- you have made it much easier to continue- I am now writing the second installment to this series.

~joan


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft stopped in on his way out and told Mrs. Hudson of the plan for Sherlock to stay at the house for a while. She nodded, saying, "The poor dear- I do hope it will help him get himself more together, but I don't know- he just seems so lost. At least there, he will have the grounds and gardens to walk in, and perhaps get more fresh air."

Mycroft agreed with that statement privately, but he didn't elaborate. He stepped out onto the street and into the waiting car, sighing as he took some paracetamol for his now-pounding head. Thank god he kept some basics in the car at all times! He texted John, and picked him up in the car later to have a talk with him. John was shocked, as expected, but agreed to go along and keep an eye on Sherlock and his medications.

Sherlock kept his promise and visited Dr. Taylor, accepting her new prescriptions for another antidepressant and an anxiolytic, after telling her how the past few months had gone. She was pleased that Sherlock was again trying therapy and hoped the new medications worked better than the older ones had. Sherlock made an appointment for two months later, and stopped on his way back to Baker Street at the chemist's to fill his new prescriptions.

When Friday morning arrived, Sherlock was a ball of barely-contained energy. Any breakfast was out of the question. His usual strong coffee would have to suffice. Throwing the sugar in the mug, he dashed off into his bedroom, hands flying as he packed enough clothes to last him for a few weeks, mostly jeans and jumpers, but also two of his previously more usual bespoke suits. He added pyjamas, a few shirts, no ties- he hated those things!-and dress shoes, slippers, his dressing gown. After a quick trip into the loo, he came out with his toiletries- only the basics, since he knew anything else would be at the house.

Walking out into the lounge, Sherlock picked up his violin, and carefully placed it in its case. He added the music he had been working on to his suitcase- not that he needed it to play the piece, that was firmly established in his mind palace. But, he wanted to be able to continue the notation for the orchestra if necessary, and to jot down any other snippets that might arise. He added fresh 12-stave and 20-stave manuscript paper and his journal. He had made lots of progress with that, and hoped it was finished enough to show her while he was there.

He made certain that he had his charger for his mobile, his laptop and its cord. He sat on the edge of his chair, going over the list of items he had packed mentally, to be sure he had not forgot something of importance. Oh! He dashed into his room again and came out with a box of nicotine patches. Slapping one on, he felt the nicotine start to be absorbed by his skin, the welcome calm that it gave him much appreciated. After a few minutes, he sat properly in the chair, then jumped up and went over to the sofa, lying down across it. He was humming a tune quietly, hands and feet keeping time.

He was very excited to be going to the house again so soon. Mycroft usually made him wait longer between visits, but this time, it seemed that Sherlock had won. He knew he had been depressed, but it always made things so much better when he could visit Molly. He hoped that she liked the music he had written for her. He always missed her so much- he hoped she could be here in 221B with him one day, but he didn't know if that was possible. So many times these days, he wasn't sure of the edges between reality and delusion- something he so far had kept from Mycroft and Dr. Taylor.

He heard the sound of the door at street level, and knew that John and Mary had arrived. They were happy to stay with Sherlock for a couple of weeks, or longer if need be, and both their jobs had agreed to the arrangements- due to Mycroft, Sherlock surmised. Mary was a good match for John, and definitely not boring. She was an intelligent although not brilliant, woman and a credit to her field of medicine, the care of pregnant women. He stood and greeted them as they came into the flat.

John immediately saw that Sherlock was wired. He was stimming so much that John wanted just to be able to wrap him in a bear hug to quiet him down, but knew that Sherlock would never allow it. He settled for a quiet sigh. He was so happy to be going there, but John wasn't sure it was the best idea, either. When he came back from these visits, Sherlock seemed brighter for a few days then started a definite spiral downward, spending more time alone, with his violin and journal. But there was always hope that things would be a bit better when he got there. In a way he was glad that Sherlock had decided to stay, maybe they could finally get him to really talk about the whole thing. The new information that Mycroft had imparted at the beginning of the week had surprised both him and Mary.

The ride out to the country house was tedious as always, Sherlock thought. He was busy re-writing musical passages in his head, the tune he had been humming earlier. It was a new tune, and he found it lent itself very well to not only violin, but pipes. Molly loved the pipes, although he sometimes found Highland pipes too loud and the drone bothered him if he had a headache. He thought maybe he could arrange this traditionally, with a tin whistle, cittern, and a bodhran. Yes, that would make for a nice birthday gift for her. He would use the uilleann pipes, they were softer, more melodic.

Mycroft worried as always about his brother. He saw all the signs indicating that his brother was experiencing high levels of anxiety, and did not know precisely what to do. As much as he hated not being in control, he supposed things would just have to play out as they would, and Sherlock would react well- or not. At least he had talked with John about what to expect at the house, and felt better that the doctor would be closely observing Sherlock. If he retreated further from reality, John could help make the determination necessary to remand him to a psychiatric facility- very private and discreet, of course. He also had given John the phone numbers for Dr. Taylor if a consultation was needed. And additionally, there were always a few of Mycroft's minions (exactly WHEN had he started using Sherlock's term for his agents?) in the house and around the grounds for security purposes- he had fully briefed them earlier in the week.

When they arrived, Mycroft had the upstairs maid show John and Mary to their suite of rooms. Sherlock dashed to his rooms in what was once the nursery wing. He had loved these rooms, although he had moved to others when he was older- but those now held too many bad associations of addiction and worse. But he had the nursery wing redone a few years ago, and now stayed there when he was in residence.

A/N For those who have been asking- yes we will soon find out more about what is going on at the country house! Thanks for all your reviews, it has been lovely to interact with you all. As always, my Beta, LilSherlockian1975, is to be given all of my thanks for her tireless help with this and soon with the next story, which immediately follows this one. Stay with me, it is worth the ride :)

~joan


	11. Chapter 11

**Notice- from now on out, this story is rated M for mentions of violence, enhanced interrogation techniques, and loss of a child**

Sherlock reached the suite of rooms and quietly opened the door. He didn't wish to startle Molly, if she were awake. She was sleeping, and he carefully crept in, and just watched her in silence for a few minutes. Much of his anxiety was soothed just watching her, his hands still running through the violin exercises but not flapping madly about.

Molly lay on the bed, her hair, longer now, arranged around her shoulders. She looked beautiful to Sherlock, she always had. Even before he was aware that he was always watching her, he thought of her as beautiful. When he had any interaction with her, he somehow felt at a loss. Acting like his usual "machine' self (as John called it) helped him to feel more in control in the early days of their friendship. His thoughts drifted back in time...

That fateful Christmas party in 221B- would he ever stop feeling like the arsehole he had been to her? And in the end it was all because he was afraid, yes, he could admit it to himself at least- of tiny Molly Hooper!

Right now, he sat in his chair at the bedside and just smiled. Even though her eyes were now open, Molly did not react to his presence. She was still wandering somewhere only she knew. Her expression was mostly blank, but now and then a flicker of her old personality skittered across her face, all too briefly. She had not spoken in months.

Sherlock thought about Molly as he returned to his room. She looked even more beautiful to him now. After what they had been through, Molly meant home, and love, and security to Sherlock. As he sat in the chair at her bedside, he thought back to the time he was away.

He had been in Athens when he received a rare text from Molly to call him when he was able. As soon as he was in a safe place where he could relax a bit, he complied.

 **What is it?- SH**

 _I need to speak with you if possible- Molly_

 **Are you all right? - SH**

 _Please, just call me when you can- Molly_

 **Are you at home now? - SH**

 _Yes, and alone – Molly_

Sherlock made the call. He knew Molly had never asked him to phone her on a whim. Maybe Moriarty's lieutenant had someone assigned to her and she was in danger- he had to know.

"Sherlock? Are you all right, are you safe?" Molly asked as soon as she answered her phone.

"Yes, of course, love, what is it?" Sherlock answered, only then realising that the endearment had slipped out quite naturally as he spoke to her.

"Um- you remember the last time you were home and we- um-" she began. "Well, the thing is, I know I have been on the Pill for ages, but um, Sherlock, I'm pregnant. Please don't be angry." Molly started to sob. It had been a very stressful day, what with going to her friend Laura for her regular check-up, and finding she was expecting Sherlock's baby. She just couldn't help it.

"Molly? Did you just say you are pregnant? That would make you-" Sherlock began, but found he had to sit - he was feeling distinctly light-headed.

" Almost four months along, yeah. " Molly answered. "I know the Pill is only supposed to be 97% effective- but you never think you will be in the 3% ! Sherlock, I am not upset, I'm happy about the baby- that is, if you are." Molly said, still sobbing every now and then. "Sh-Sherlock?

"Um, yes, Molly, I'm here" Sherlock answered, wondering if he had spaced out for a second- a few minutes? Sometimes the way his mind worked was really inconvenient!

"So, what do you think, Sherlock? Are you angry?" Molly kept at it- he had trouble focusing because his head was pounding, a migraine threatening. Without thinking, he started drumming his fingers on the bedside stand, needing to do something before he just completely lost it. A small sound came from his lips- it sounded suspiciously like a moan.

"Molly, no, I am not upset with you. Why on earth would I be? I am at least partly responsible for this- although you were rather fetching the last time I saw you, as I recall-" he managed to say, his head still throbbing as he tried to put a lighter note on the reply. "I- err- I'm getting a headache, so if I don't make much sense right now, it's because I just can't think." Sherlock replied. "Have you seen Laura?" He knew that Laura was her friend and doctor, but didn't know if she had made an appointment.

"Yes, I did see her today. I didn't do a test right away because I blamed my-err- irregularity on the stress of worrying about you." Molly answered. "Have you been getting a lot of migraines again? Do you have anything to take?"

"Yes, I have been having more than usual, but I put it down to stress about getting the last three of Moriarty's agents captured. To answer your other question, I have aspirin- it helps if I take it with some tea or coffee. I daren't take anything stronger whilst I am alone here- it might impair me. With the means I have at my disposal, thanks to my big brother, I hope to have the criminals sorted very soon, and can come home. Are you feeling all right? Is your mother bothering you about this?" Sherlock asked.

"I have been fine. I had a bit of sickness- all day I am afraid- for a couple of weeks, but it has gone now. I guess a part of me knew, but I didn't admit it to myself- silly, really. I'm actually feeling very well. Mum has been surprisingly good about this- she -err- knows that I have loved you for years- I believe her remark was, 'Well, you have been heartbroken since that detective bloke died- and it's no shame to find comfort in someone's arms.' I should be having an ultrasound next month- they will be able to tell what we are having. Sherlock- do you want to know if it's a girl or a boy?" Molly asked, beginning to sound more excited now that she knew he was not upset. For Sherlock, he was remarkably calm and positive, and he had called her "love".

"I want to do whatever you want, Molly. If you want to find out, then by all means, do. I think it's probably good to know, don't you?" said Sherlock, still in amazement at the whole affair. His head chose that moment to ratchet the pain up a notch or three, and he winced. He just couldn't continue much longer, his stomach was starting to feel like he was going to be sick. "Molly, I have to go- I'll try to call you later when I feel less sick. I'll be home soon." Sherlock said as he ended the call.

He just made it to the toilet, where he was sick for a good half hour. Finally, his stomach empty and his head still throbbing, Sherlock made it back into the bedroom and lay down. Blessedly, he was able to fall asleep fairly quickly. When he awoke four hours later, he felt slightly hung-over, as he always did after the worst of a headache, but not too bad otherwise. He made some tea in his room and sat sipping it before he ventured in to shower and clean his teeth and shave.

Sherlock thought about the phone call with Molly. He could scarcely believe they had been intimate, and now- he was still in a bit of a daze about all that. Contrary to Mycroft's snide remarks, he did know how babies were made. It took some getting used to the idea of him and Molly having a child. He was surprised to find he was actually rather chuffed about that. Looking forward to a life with Molly and the baby was far more than he had ever hoped for in this life. This time away from everyone had left him a much altered man. The prospect of a life with Molly, and without worrying about Moriarty's network, was much more pleasant to ponder.

His brother would have to know, Sherlock realised with a sigh. He might as well make the call now and get it over with. He knew that Mycroft would at least step up the surveillance on Molly and ease Sherlock's mind some, until he got home. Taking another sip of tea as if it were something much stronger, Sherlock placed the call.

 _Hello, brother, dear. How are you? - MH_

 **Headache – SH**

 _A bad one? - MH_

 **Bad enough. Mycroft, I need to ask you for a favour – SH**

 _Have already increased security for Ms.- err- Dr. Hooper- MH_

 **Thank you- I should have known- SH**

 _It seems congratulations are in order – MH_

 **Yes- Mycroft, if you start, I- SH**

 _Not at all,little brother- it's about time – MH_

 **Thank you- have to go- sick- SH**

 _All right then- see you soon- MH_

Sherlock didn't want to know how Mycroft knew already, he was just glad that he was watching Molly. He was exceedingly glad he was in a safe place, as his head was threatening its worst again. He took two more aspirin and tried to block out the light in the room. In just a few minutes, he fell asleep again...

(back at the country house, present time )

Sherlock was in the prison in Serbia, tied by chains on his wrists so that he could not sit. He was being questioned by a brute of a man, who hefted a piece of lead pipe at Sherlock's body every few minutes, if he got any answers or not. Sherlock felt the blows, but he was so accustomed by now to the pain that he didn't react much. He knew he was just so tired of the whole scenario and wanted nothing more than to rest, and have the beatings stop. It seemed there were always other men with weapons to continue to beat him, only the choice of weapon and the placing of the blows changed slightly. Every now and then when he lost consciousness, someone would throw cold water at him to revive him a bit so he would feel every punch, kick, or piece of lumber that was aimed at him. God, where was his brother? Maybe they had found the tracking device and removed it, he couldn't remember...

Sherlock awakened at Molly's bedside, at first frightened and confused for a moment, before he realised where he was and that he would be staying this time. Molly lay as she always did, smiling occasionally at something she was seeing or thinking about in her head. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissed it, and placed it carefully on the bed. Then he returned to his bedroom to rest before dinner. The new medications did help the depression a bit, but also made him drowsy, and he didn't relish the thought of falling asleep in his soup. He undressed quickly, pulling on an old tee shirt and pyjama bottoms; and got under the covers, with the weighted blanket on top of the duvet. He fell asleep almost immediately.

 **A/N- Well, we have arrived at some more revelations about Sherlock and Molly, with more to come. Thanks for all your kind reviews, they mean a lot. Also many thanks as always to my Beta, LilSherlockian1975 , for all your help and encouragement along the way.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Please note that from now on, this story is rated M for mentions of violence, enhanced interrogation techniques, and loss of a child**

( the Holmes country house, several days later )

Mycroft looked at his brother. For once Sherlock was on his bed, sleeping soundly- no doubt due to the new meds. His face looked troubled, confused. He was lying on his left side, curled into a foetal position. The elder Holmes brother walked quietly into the room and placed a weighted blanket over his brother. Shaking his head, he walked down to the main sitting room, where John and Mary waited.

"Mycroft, what's going on here? Sherlock has been so sad, depressed- he still won't say anything to me. We haven't been allowed to see Molly- if she is here-? What happened?" asked John, his face a study in worry.

"Sherlock stayed at Ms.-err. Dr.- Hooper's place immediately after his fall from Bart's for a few weeks, until his injuries, although minor, were healed enough for him to begin his task of taking apart Moriarty's web. He returned there a few times when he needed a temporary base in London. This led to a most unfortunate chain of events. My brother and Dr. Hooper became closer with each of his visits, eventually becoming intimate. He fell in love with her. She became pregnant, and in Sherlock's memory, at least as he has related it to me recently, was going to you, Dr. Morstan, for obstetric care. Sherlock remembers talking with Molly from Athens. She was to have an ultrasound scan soon to ensure that the pregnancy was going along well."

John and Mary both reacted at this. They looked at each other in complete confusion.

"Mary! You knew this? You knew Sherlock was alive all that time?" said John, looking hurt and not a little angry.

"John, no, of course not! I never saw Molly for any pregnancy- she must have gone to someone else. I don't even remember her looking pregnant before she left- is that why she left? Mycroft?" replied Mary, equally confused and hurt.

"John, Mary, I am afraid that my brother suffered more from his time away than you supposed. He was certainly detained for weeks, deprived of sustenance, and beaten and tortured. He doesn't remember much. What he does remember is Molly and his feelings for her, her love and affection toward him. He has forgotten that Molly's obstetrican/gynecolgist was her friend, Laura MacLean. I believe that when he was returned to Baker Street and met you, Mary, he replaced Laura with your face and name in his mind. He does know that information regarding Molly was torn from him, and she suffered much at the hands of Moriarty's henchmen. One of the agents that I had on her surveillance team was compromised. Molly was also kidnapped, held as a hostage, and eventually subjected to drugs that caused her to go into premature labour. She was then at a gestational stage where it might have been possible to save the baby, but without any medical care, the child was lost. It seems that Moriarty had wanted to destroy Sherlock completely, and had left instructions to do anything to reach that goal. His thugs thought that losing Molly and the baby might be the final straws. "

"But that is just horrible!" cried Mary. "Poor Molly- was there any damage to her uterus? Did she have to be transfused? Is there any hope for future children?"

"What about Sherlock? How did he get back to England? What were his injuries? Did you have to go and extract him? Did he find out about Molly?" asked John, in horror. "This is why he's writing sad music and all the rest, isn't it? And, oh god, _that's_ why he isn't taking cases for the Met any more! Greg Lestrade must have been told, and only gives him cold cases to solve- to deal with the depression as well as the boredom."

Mycroft nodded, took a deep breath, sighed, and sat down. "I'm very worried about my brother. When we got to where he was being held, he was in very poor condition in every sense of the word. He had been drugged with his former choices, heroin and cocaine; was severely dehydrated and malnourished, emaciated, had wounds over much of his body, and was almost unresponsive to my questions concerning his treatment and other information I needed to ascertain about his mission. He had obviously been beaten to within an inch of his life, as the saying goes; and in this case it was an accurate description. He had been subjected to extensive torture, including water-boarding. There were a large number of bones fractured that had to be dealt with; the infection from the compound fractures nearly killed him outright. He also had a concussion from all the blows to his head - that was very worrying for several weeks. We were afraid that he would suffer seizures as a result, but that turned out to be a false assumption, thankfully."

Mycroft continued." He stayed locked in his mind palace for weeks after we brought him home. His doctors thought he was catatonic or comatose at first, until I explained about his memory device. When he began asking about Molly, his doctor suggested we not tell him, but, being Sherlock, even in his injured state, he quickly guessed he was not being told the truth, and demanded it. In the end, I thought it best to comply. He spent several months in rehab, both for the drug dependence and physio therapy, eventually regaining most of his former functions. He also received targeted psychotherapy for his PTSD. But psychologically, he remains very fragile."

"Molly was understandably despondent and went into a deep depression. She also had some complications as a result of the traumatic pre-term birth which required some surgery, but no permanent damage to her reproductive system. She had a pneumonia which thankfully responded well to the antibiotics. She has been kept here with the best medical care since she was able to be released from hospital. She has not responded to anyone in months, and does not seem to know Sherlock has returned and has visited. When someone is with her, she will obey commands- for instance, to help with her dressing, but that is about the extent of her interactions. She is able, with prompting, to use the toilet facilities, eat and drink,that sort of thing. She seems to be in almost a catatonic state, and so far no medications or talk therapy have helped her to return to us. Sherlock feels that Molly does know when he is there, and insists on staying here now. I don't have the – heart - to continue to deny him."

Mycroft looked very tired and much older when he had finished. He swept his hand over his face, and Mary swore she saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes. For Mycroft to display such emotion was a true measure of just how worried he was. A maid brought in the tea things, and poured out for each of them.

"Well, I for one will _not_ accept that there is nothing more we can do!" said Mary vehemently. "I have had other patients that experienced an infant loss and there are ways that can help- both parents. Many times the father is not really included in the general concern, as there are people who feel that men should be strong and carry on. This is never healthy, and in this case we know that Sherlock has had more to deal with his whole life than most people. With what you have shared with us, it is even more important that he be included in the effort to help him to deal with the loss, since we cannot predict what, if any, reaction Molly will have. A catatonic state is not completely unheard of with post-partum depression. Perhaps we should consult a psychiatrist who specialises in that. "

" Really? No one has mentioned this to me so far. I am willing to try anything at this point to help her. Without an improvement for Molly, I am very much afraid that Sherlock will continue to retreat further from us as well. He was doing much better these last few weeks, but something has set him back." Mycroft said sadly. "He has agreed to start seeing his psychiatrist again, and has recently started on a new anti-depressant and also a new anxiolytic. It has been only about two weeks but I have seen some positive benefit already. I can only hope it continues to have this effect. Sherlock may be easier to reach in a brighter mood. I had hoped the composing would help him to focus again. I am very glad that he has not resorted to his old habit of substance abuse, but I constantly fear it may seem more attractive if he grows more despondent. "

"Um- I know why he probably was feeling worse. Mary and I are expecting our first- we haven't really told Sherlock yet, but I know he's sussed it out." John said, looking simultaneously happy about their baby, and sad for their friends. He didn't know how to feel, if truth be told. How the hell were they supposed to help Sherlock- and could Molly even be reached at all?

"My congratulations to the both of you. I am grateful for your assistance in this situation. I was reaching the end of my ability to make a difference, and I believe Sherlock would, at the very least, benefit from having his best friend around him now. He may even be able to verbalise what he is feeling, to you. I would like to compensate you both for your time. If you agree, I will arrange a leave of absence, open-ended, for both of you. You may stay here with Sherlock and Molly as long as you wish, and we can search for a house for your growing family when you think the time is right. Now, I fear I must put in some time for my actual work for Her Majesty's government- if you need me, dial 2 on the house phone."

A/N Things were very bad for both Sherlock and Molly- but their friends and Mycroft are going to do everything possible to help. Many thanks again to those who have reviewed, followed, or favorited this - it has been a great inspiration to help me in writing the second in this series! Also once again, thanks to my awesome Beta, LilSherlockian1975 for her great suggestions and friendship.

~joan


	13. Chapter 13

Fearfully And Wonderfully Made - Chapter 13

John and Mary talked far into the night, discussing what might possibly help their friends. Mary felt that her experience with bereaved parents could help to reach out to the couple - and perhaps help Sherlock, at least. Molly they were less sure about, but if she were present when Mary spoke with Sherlock, she might be reached at some level.

John sat and pored over the medical records of both of their friends, hoping to gain more understanding of their physical conditions and of Sherlock's psychiatric medications. He was familiar with some of them, but sometimes the newer ones took a while to filter down to the G.P.s who were treating patients for other conditions. John wanted to be sure he didn't miss any adverse reaction that might be mistaken for a worsening of symptoms.

John spent the next few days becoming more familiar with Sherlock and Molly's medical records. He had access to Sherlock's prior records when they lived together, of course, at Mycroft's insistence. It came in exceedingly handy when he had to patch up Sherlock after cases or experiments. This recent, more extensive material was new to him. He took quite some time to familiarise himself with the psychiatric meds, especially. When he read of all the initial findings after Sherlock had been found and flown home by helicopter, John couldn't help but wince and bite back a few tears at the damage that had been inflicted on his best friend. The photos after Sherlock was taken to hospital were especially difficult for John to view. He made a few trips to the pantry where the medical kit was kept, and asked Mycroft to order some additional things that John hoped he would never need, but wanted to have on hand, just in case.

Mary, meanwhile, was doing her own research and preparation. She talked more with Mycroft about what he knew of Molly's condition during her forced labour and her delivery. She also looked at the medical records, concentrating on Molly. Mary wanted to prepare to speak to the couple about as much of the events surrounding the birth as possible. After speaking with Mycroft, she felt much more positive. Apparently Anthea was present when Molly was found, and took upon herself the task to find and care for the infant's remains. This was a very good thing. Mary learned other things which could be very helpful, as well. She began to feel some real hope that they would be able to reach Sherlock and help him begin to resolve his grief and guilt.

Sherlock had reached the last notes of his symphony, although he still needed to add several instruments' notation to the full orchestral score. He had practised the violin part in another part of the house. He felt it was ready to play for Molly. He checked the violin's tuning once more, made sure the bowstring was at the proper tension, applied several strokes of rosin, and started walking toward his - well, Molly's, now - bedroom. He waited for the others to arrive - everyone would listen to the new composition together in this room. John, Mary, and Mycroft were sat on the love-seats in the sitting area. They had been re-arranged to face Sherlock, with Molly facing him at the opposite side of the room. At her side sat Anthea, to offer her support. Sherlock, freshly showered, shaved, and his dark hair lying in those beautiful, Byronesque curls, looked more like himself dressed in one of his bespoke suits, this one jet black with a crisp white shirt. He walked out into the centre of the floor and made a slight bow. Sherlock quietly said, "This piece is called 'For Molly'." He raised the violin to his chin, took up the bow, and began to play.

The music began quietly and built to a moderate level. The first theme was a grand, sweeping passage so sweet as to tug at all heartstrings in the little audience. As Sherlock continued to play, he changed the key and the mood. This passage was much sadder, with the feeling of a cold sea breeze blowing through the room. The violin's voice became almost strident, and with another key change into a minor one, sounded very lonely and forsaken. This theme modulated into something a bit softer, but remained very tense and unsettled. Yet another change, and the same theme became more bold and confident, and the section ended in an almost defiant flourish.

The next section sounded almost dreamlike, and was faster and more lively. The main theme was repeated at the start, this time in a major key. In the middle a second theme was introduced, also happier-sounding than before. This movement ended with a repeat of the first theme. The little group of listeners smiled to themselves and each other.

The music progressed through a slow section, which sounded lighter, very hopeful. Themes from the beginning of the piece were reintroduced occasionally, and were joined by new variations, again lighter and happier. The mood of this portion grew lighter and happier, and there was a beautiful crescendo building to a very grand apex; then the key changed again into a minor, and the notes plummeted down into a deep, despairing chasm.

The final section was heart-breaking. How one instrument managed to sound so forlorn, so lost, so damned desperate, John didn't know - but he wanted it to end. It did end, finally, returning to the main theme vehemently, and no one had to be told to realise the music had been representative of Sherlock's life. John, Mary, and Mycroft were as focused on the musician as on the music itself, fascinated to see Sherlock so caught up in the moment. He had played the whole piece with those quicksilver eyes focused on Molly, and had gradually turned so that he faced her bed. She lay there silently, eyes open but unfocused on any object. No one was surprised that there were tears in Sherlock's eyes.

Mycroft looked at his watch and was shocked to discover that fully 65 minutes had passed since his brother had started playing. After a few moments, the small audience stood and applauded, no dry eyes in evidence. Sherlock looked slightly shocked to see them there, but recovered himself in time to accept their appreciation. He made another slight bow and left to put the violin away.

The little group looked around at each other in amazement. Mycroft and John had heard Sherlock play many times, of course, but not like this. Mary and Anthea had never heard him play much more than the scratching noise he made to irritate his brother when Sherlock had enough of his "interference." Mycroft thought that his friend Adrian would not have much to tweak when he looked over the composition. It would be a major new work when it was presented, and Sherlock would become famous for an entirely new reason.

Sherlock returned to the sitting room. He looked exhausted, but in a curious way, more relaxed. Playing the piece for Molly had definitely been a very nerve-wracking thing for him, but he seemed more content than before. He went and sat in Anthea's place by Molly's bed. One of the maids brought in the tea service and some biscuits. Sherlock was pleased to see his favourite chocolate ones were included. He had some tea and ate two of the biscuits, not realising until then that he had not eaten since breakfast. The others finished their tea and exited the room.

Sherlock sat and talked to Molly. He told her all about writing the symphony and how he had already completed most of the notation for a full orchestra. He told her that he was working on a new piece as well, hinting that it would be ready for her birthday. Sherlock told himself that she reacted a bit to this news, but he was not certain it was not just his imagination. Still, he felt so much better after talking with her. He sat holding her hand and stroking her hair with those slender musician's fingers for a while, hoping that she had heard the music and understood.

After returning to the room he now slept in, Sherlock changed into pyjamas and a dressing gown, eschewing slippers on the carpeted floors. He descended to the main floor and found the rest of the household occupants sitting by the fire. John stood and walked toward him. This time John did not hesitate, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock and gave him a warm hug. The detective winced slightly, and John let go and stepped back, looking Sherlock over again with his physician's senses sharpened. He could see only tiredness after the emotional performance, and Sherlock's now-usual note of sadness and depression.

Sherlock walked over to a brocade divan and sat, curling his feet up on the seat beside him. He tossed a light throw over his legs and feet and after a few moments, slipped into slumber. The others watched, surprised, as he rarely ever slept, much less when people were around to observe him. They thought it must be the new medications, and felt reassured that Sherlock was still taking them. When they were ready to retire, John gently shook Sherlock's shoulder. When the detective opened his eyes, obviously still very groggy, John said, "C'mon, you - let's get you up to bed. You look exhausted." Sherlock didn't reply, and simply got up and started for the stairs. He turned into Molly's room first.

Molly lay on her left side, facing the entrance to the room. She was propped with pillows into a comfortable position, and probably wouldn't stir until the morning. She slept with one hand under her cheek, and looked for all the world like the child she had once been. The braids in her hair intensified the look. Her nurse braided her hair each night, and it hung in long curls every day after it was brushed out. Sherlock leant down and kissed her forehead lightly, smiling slightly. Then he pulled her covers up a bit more, and satisfied that all was well, he turned and headed for his room.

After Sherlock left, Molly went on drifting, for lack of a better term. She walked around through endless corridors in what she believed was Sherlock's mind palace - she didn't know how she got there; but, it seemed that was where she was. She saw many things that reminded her of Sherlock, and a few that reminded her of their time together. Wherever she went, she could hear the sound of his violin, and it made her happy. Few people really knew how well Sherlock played, fewer still ever got to hear his original music. She felt privileged to have heard him play quite often. It was one thing that helped him to regain some equilibrium after the Fall.

Molly went into what could only be Sherlock's childhood bedroom. She smiled, then was saddened by the things that were left there. Chemistry equipment, and remnants of experiments Sherlock had done were on the top of the dresser. The toys- knights on horseback, army men, space warriors - all were lined up precisely, facing outward from Sherlock's bed to ward off any intruders.

There was a well-worn teddy bear tucked under the pillow sham. Molly bent and picked it up, hugging it tightly to her. She was happy to see that he had something to snuggle with as a boy.

In one room, she saw his parents as they must have been when he was a small child. They seemed lovely and yet afraid that they would further damage their youngest son. Having been told that children who reacted like Sherlock were caused by a mother who withheld something vital, his mother especially stayed away. His father, not really sure who to support, tried to present at least a united front. Both were well-meaning, and she knew they loved him, but they had failed Sherlock when he needed them most.

She next went down a new hallway. There she found a room with a pirate ship of sorts, and all the accompanying props. Wooden swords, hats with plumes, eye patches, and more lay waiting as if the boys who once played with them might reappear at any moment. Molly smiled a little at the thought of Sherlock and Mycroft sailing the seas in this room. As she left this room, she saw a flash of a puffy tail out of the corner of her eye - "Toby?" she called, but he was out of sight by the time she turned the corner.

Molly turned into another room where she heard a faint whimper. Here she found an Irish Setter pup, all gangly legs and floppy ears. Surely this was Redbeard, whom Sherlock had spoken of a few times as his best friend when he was a child. Sadly, when the dog was about 6, Redbeard had developed a cancer that was inoperable, and his mother had him put down while Sherlock was away at school. He had been inconsolable for weeks. That the puppy had his own room here said much about his love for and dependence on the pet.

She went into another room and halted abruptly. This room was being made into a nursery. There was a cot, some cheery paintings on the wall, some unbelievably tiny clothes were laid on top of a small chest - but all was covered with a thickening later of dust. It had never been completed, just as their child had never - Molly started sobbing in her dreams and quickly left this chamber. So, Sherlock often thought about their baby, too - it was strangely comforting to know. She wondered if it had been a boy or a girl - she never found out. Perhaps Mycroft would be able to find out for her.

As she slowly left the mind palace and returned to what she considered to be her old flat, she felt for the first time in ages, that she must be sleeping. Had she heard Sherlock talking to her and even playing a violin piece? Molly thought she had better try and wake up so she could see him - it had been so long since he left the last time.

When he got to his room, Sherlock went into the loo. After using the toilet he washed his face and hands and cleaned his teeth. Brushing through his curls once or twice, he shut off the light and got into bed. No one was there to see that he slept curled up in a foetal position each night, or that his weighted blanket was securely over him. As he fell asleep, his fingers moved through finger exercises of their own volition, slowing and then stopping as his sleep deepened.


	14. Chapter 14

Fearfully And Wonderfully Made – Chapter 14

Sherlock awoke to the sound of songbirds in the back garden. Squinting over at the clock on the night-stand, he saw that it was half seven - time to get up. He yawned and stretched, feeling more rested than he had in weeks. Finally getting to play his symphony was so good to do, after working on it for so long. He stumbled into the loo, turning on the hot water for a quick shower to help him wake up. The meds definitely helped him to sleep better, but they tended to leave him a bit groggy in the morning. Still, the huge decrease in nightmares alone was worth it. They had not disappeared completely, but the frequency had decreased markedly. He shrugged and stepped into the steam.

After the shower, Sherlock shaved and cleaned his teeth, put on jeans, a jumper in a blue-grey shade that nearly matched his eyes, and some black trainers. He then went downstairs in search of coffee. He knew Molly's nurse was helping her to wash, clean her teeth, and get dressed. Molly seemed to be able to follow directions some of the time, although she did the tasks in a stilted, robotic manner. At least there was some evidence that she did perceive the outside world, which gave Sherlock hope that she could be reached, especially now that he was here to stay. He sat thinking of how that could be achieved. Perhaps he could have a talk with John and Mary, and see what their research had revealed.

Mycroft, Mary, and John were all sat at the table in the kitchen. There was an array of foods on the counter, and Sherlock was pleased to see his favourite chocolate biscuits there. He selected a couple, and a mug of coffee. When he sat down, John's frown at his plate made Sherlock sigh and return to put some eggs, beans, and a slice of toast alongside the biscuits. John looked over and nodded when Sherlock sat back down. "That's more like it, Sherlock - can't keep running on coffee and biscuits, you know. Erm - thank you." he finished, noting Sherlock's raised eyebrow and slight smirk.

"So, brother mine, how did you sleep last night? I'm sure the performance wore you out a bit; it was excellent, by the way. Most enjoyable." Mycroft said, sipping his Earl Grey. "I know that Adrian will be thrilled to see the score when you have completed it. It is by far the best you have composed yet, and certainly the most ambitious."

"Yes. Sherlock, well done - I am still in awe of you! That was amazing! I've never known anyone who composed before," Mary chimed in to the conversation, smiling widely. She had passed her slight bout with morning sickness, and her face actually DID glow. She looked rested and ready to start tackling the problem of getting Sherlock and Molly back to better physical and mental health.

Sherlock mumbled a quiet "Thank you. I slept pretty well." He looked at Mary again, and considered that he never got to see Molly looking this way, brimming with health and the promise of a new life and wondered if she had taken any photos... He got up and left the room abruptly. He suddenly felt tears pricking in his eyes and did not want the others to see them. He returned to his room, changed back into his pyjamas and dressing-gown, and spent the next two hours in adding to the notation for a few instruments. "Square up, Holmes" he said to himself, and again descended the stairs.

When he entered the lounge, John and Mary were watching "crap telly," as John called it. Sherlock never understood that phrase - if it was such crap, why watch? He mentally shook himself and walked to a nearby sofa and stretched out on it. He was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown - well, it was nearly time for their lunch, he could always change later - or not. He tossed a knitted throw over his lower body and legs, and turned to face the back of the sofa. It was time to search through his mind palace - or possibly take a nap - a while. Within a few minutes, his breathing deepened and he was asleep again.

John turned to Mary and said, "Well, he's asleep again. Why, do you reckon - the meds?" In all the time he had known Sherlock, he had never seen him sleep this much unless he was ill. Physically ill, that is. It was a bit disturbing.

"Oh, yeah, I'd say probably it's the meds, but he is still depressed, as well. You know, he and Molly both have the signs of PTSD. That can manifest as catatonia, too - and excessive sleepiness. I think we need to see if he can start to be tapered down a bit. Sleeping - good; always asleep, not so good. What do you think?" she asked her husband, a concerned expression on her face as she looked at Sherlock's back.

"Yeah, I think that he probably could be tapered down a tad. Mary - I've just had an idea - I don't know why it hasn't occurred to me before now! God, I can't believe," John said, seeming suddenly more animated. "I could call Ella, my therapist. She specialises in PTSD, for heaven's sake. We should run it by Mycroft first, of course, but I think she could be very helpful. Depending on what we decide, she would be a great resource for us, or maybe she would actually come out to see both of them and serve as a primary therapist. What do you think about it?" he asked his wife.

"I think that's a wonderful idea, and that we should talk to Mycroft as soon as we can, so we can contact Ella if he agrees," Mary answered, her face showing a similar amount of relief and hope as her husband's. John smiled for the first time in several days, and picked up the house phone.

Mycroft was more than agreeable to their consulting with Ella. He had, of course, visited her and been monitoring John's sessions ever since John met Sherlock. He thought it an excellent idea, and put it down to their worry over Molly and Sherlock, that no one had thought of it before. He put down the phone and felt a tiny flicker of hope begin inside him.

John went into another room to call Ella. He didn't want Sherlock to hear when he was half-asleep and get agitated. Ella was surprisingly available to take his call - John had expected to leave a message. He immediately suspected Mycroft; but decided that this time, he could live with the path being smoothed. Ella listened to his brief but thorough explanation of the situation, thought for a moment, and then replied.

"John, I think from what you have told me that your friends are very much in need of an approach that sees the PTSD as a type of grieving. Both have suffered physical, emotional, and spiritual injuries and loss. I think that treating them together is probably best, as you have both predicted. I also think they will respond more easily to someone they know well. From what you have told me of Sherlock before, he especially would baulk at yet another stranger "prying" into his most personal feelings. I will be happy to work with you and Mary, and to be available any time for a crisis situation, but I think I would best serve as a consultant for the both of you. If need be, I can certainly come out to see them. What do you think?" Ella asked.

"I think that could work well, especially if you agree to be available if we really need you. You're right, Sherlock doesn't like anyone knowing his innermost feelings too well. He has been seeing a therapist for the last few weeks again, after stopping therapy for several months. She has also agreed to be a resource for us," John answered, feeling new strength to deal with the coming storm flow into his mind and body. They could do this.

John, and then Mary, spoke with Ella for another half hour, then rang off, agreeing to her calling them each evening to confer. They both felt newly invigorated, and ready to take on the challenge of helping their friends to process their trauma and to recover as much as possible. Both knew it would be a long, slow road to recovery for both Sherlock and Molly. What would happen with their relationship was still very much unknown, but Mary and John both hoped for the best.

While the Watsons planned their strategies, Sherlock spent more time with Molly. He usually went over to her room after her nurse got her up in the morning. He now took his breakfast in her room, and helped her to eat if she needed assistance. Once she realised that it was mealtime, Molly could function quite well, eating and drinking normally. Sherlock was fascinated at the daily activities that she dealt with while still remaining largely dissociated from her surroundings in other respects. He thought that he might be able to reach her through remaining at her side most of the day, and talking to her as if she were an active participant in the conversation.

Sherlock decided he would try to engage Molly in some activity, no matter how routine. He found over the next few days that she did respond to his voice, and to his instructions when he asked her to walk with him around her room, for example. He was encouraged by this, and continued to speak and to read to her much of the day, pausing in the conversation to leave time for her response, if it came. So far, Molly was still silent, but Sherlock held great hopes that she would hear him and come back into reality a little more each day.

 _( Three weeks later...)_

Sherlock was sat beside Molly on the sofa in her room, reading to her, when he felt a very slight touch at his sleeve. He carefully schooled himself not to startle, and glanced down. Molly had taken hold of his sleeve, and was clinging to it. He patted her hand, and tucked it under his arm. Molly remained relaxed and left her hand where Sherlock had placed it. He went on reading as before, covertly watching her for any further reaction. Molly was listening with a very slight smile on her face. Since he was reading _Pride and Prejudice_ to her, Sherlock knew she nearly had the story memorised. It was one reason he had chosen it. When he read the line, "My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them - " Molly reacted with a smile, and then - a slight laugh. Sherlock was thrilled but reminded himself not to startle her. He looked down at her, and said softly, "Molly? What were you smiling at?"

"It's just - that line sounds so much like you," Molly replied. She was suddenly fully present with him, as if she had only been asleep for a few minutes. He was unsure of what to do, but thought he should try and continue as if that were the case.

"Oh, really? Clearly, you have some experience of this," he said playfully. "I may, at times, have been guilty of such a thing. Lestrade would know that better than I - he and his lot are always painfully slow when I have deduced the evidence at a crime scene." Sherlock added, giving a grimace at the mention of the Met's Crime Scene techs. Every atom of his being was screaming, but he was determined not to scare her. He quickly texted John, telling him the basics of what had happened.

John heard his text alert and thought grumpily - _Oi,what does Sherlock want now?_ but changed his mindset when he saw the message. He and Mary were in the lounge, watching a bit of telly while they waited for Sherlock to appear as he usually did when Molly had a nap in the afternoon. His eyes grew wide as he tapped his wife on the arm, getting her attention.

"Mary, that was Sherlock - Molly is awake and talking!" he said, looking as astonished as he felt. "I'll be damned if Sherlock's persistence didn't pay off!"

"Wha - really? Oh, gosh - we have to tell Mycroft!" Mary replied. "What did Sherlock say?"

"Just that she is awake and talked to him, and that he is afraid that she will be frightened back into her silence. He wants us to come in, but not too quickly or loudly - a good precaution, I should think," John answered. "I'm going to let Mycroft know right now." he picked up the house phone and pressed number 2.

The End


End file.
